Eyes Wide Shut
by Marianna Morgan
Summary: Pizza Pie 'verse – Dean stared up at Bobby, holding a crying Sam and looking uncharacteristically spooked even as he kept his voice steady. "Something's wrong with Sam's eyes," he reported, his expression reflecting his confusion and concern. "He can't open them."
1. Chapter 1

**Summary** : Pizza Pie 'verse – Dean stared up at Bobby, holding a crying Sam and looking uncharacteristically spooked even as he kept his voice steady. "Something's wrong with Sam's eyes," he reported, his expression reflecting his confusion and concern. "He can't open them."

 **Disclaimer** : The characters aren't mine. But this 'verse is...and I sometimes wish I could live here forever.

 **Warnings** : None – just minor language and a healthy dose of schmoop and angst...or as I like to call it, "schmangst".

* * *

 _And my eyes, they hurt... ~ Holly McNarland, "Water"_

* * *

This was one of Bobby's favorite times of the day.

This brief moment when he allowed himself to float in the haze between asleep and awake and pretend that his life was different.

That Karen was beside him, tucked warm and safe and _alive_ under the covers with her hair fanned out long and messy over the pillow. Her smile sleepy but genuine when she blinked back at him, her face within inches of his.

"Morning..." she would whisper in this recurring dream and would kiss him softly, wrinkling her nose at the rough scruff of his beard. "One day, I'm gonna make you shave, Bobby Singer," she liked to tease.

"Anything for you," he would quip in return.

But he had always meant it – _anything_ for Karen...even the unthinkable.

Bobby frowned as the thought crossed his mind and quickly pushed it away.

Because this was no place for reality. No place for harsh truths and the memory of impossible decisions – like killing your wife for her own good.

This was a place of make believe – of what could have been...of what _should_ have been – and Bobby didn't care how ridiculous or crazy that sounded. This dreamlike haze was one of the only places he was truly happy, and he allowed himself to linger a bit longer.

Because Karen was still smiling at him, one elbow digging into the mattress as she sat up, sweeping her hair out of her face and listening.

"Are the boys up?"

"Don't think so," Bobby mumbled, drowsy and comfortable as he lounged beside her with the sun beginning to flood their room through the half-closed curtains. "Haven't heard them moving around yet this morning."

Karen nodded and turned her attention back to Bobby. "Guess that means we have a little time on our hands, old man..." she pointed out and batted her eyes suggestively, trying to look sexy but then laughing at herself.

Bobby laughed with her. "Got any suggestions for how to fill all this time?" he asked, even as he reached up to cup the back of her neck and pulled her toward him.

"Hmm..." she hummed into his kiss, relaxing into his hold and draping her body over his as the blankets rustled and the bedframe creaked. "I think you're on the right track," she praised a few seconds later, breathless, and winked at him as she snuggled into his side. "Because after all...a woman's got needs, Singer."

"Yeah?" Bobby prompted, as if they didn't always have this conversation in his dream.

"Yeah," Karen affirmed with a contented sigh. "And all that I need, I've already got right here – you and our boys...and even that damn ol' dog."

Bobby chuckled, his arm around his wife as they continued to lay in bed together. "Hey, woman. What have I told you? Never talk about a man's dog."

Karen laughed at the expected reprimand from one of their long-running jokes – that she didn't like Rumsfeld – and kissed Bobby again, pausing at the sound of little feet padding down the hallway.

"Guess who's up..." she sing-songed and glanced over her shoulder just in time to see their bedroom door swing open.

"Mama..."

Karen smiled at the sound of her four-year old's sweet, sleepy voice. "Yes, baby."

"I'm hungry."

"Sammy..." Dean admonished, appearing in the doorway beside his brother. "I told you not to wake them up. I can make you breakfast."

"Not like Mama can," Sam countered, a stubborn scowl creasing his forehead.

Karen's smile widened. "It's okay, Dean," she assured her oldest, seeing the comeback forming on the eight-year old's lips. "We were already awake." She paused. "And since I'm awake and Sammy's hungry, how 'bout I make you boys some pancakes?"

"Yes!" both brothers answered in unison, hoping their mom would offer that particular Saturday morning treat.

"You spoil them," Bobby grumbled, still stretched beside his wife on the bed.

"And you don't?" Karen challenged with an arched eyebrow.

Bobby smiled and shrugged. "Way I see it...they're ours to spoil."

"Damn right they are," Karen agreed and turned back to their boys still standing in the doorway, only now with an overgrown puppy squeezing between them.

"Rummy," Sam whined as the dog pushed against him. "Quit it!" he complained and pushed back.

Rumsfeld licked Sam's face but otherwise appeared unfazed, continuing to shove his way into Bobby and Karen's room...and then bounding forward when he finally gained entry past the brothers.

Sam gasped and stumbled backwards, saved by his big brother's steadying hand.

Dean glared at the culprit. "Why does this dog stay in the house?"

"Good question," Karen commented, equally annoyed that Rumsfeld had almost toppled her four-year old. "Bobby..."

Bobby chuckled, knowing Rumsfeld was in trouble – and so was he – just by the tone of Karen's voice. "Rummy," he called and snapped his fingers, his hand hanging over the side of the bed until he felt a huge furry head. "Stay over here with me, boy. You know I'm the only one who loves you," he told the dog, scratching behind Rumsfeld's ears.

"Nuh-uh," Sam chirped from the doorway. " _I_ love him, too."

Karen smiled, taking notice that Dean remained silent on the issue since she and her oldest merely tolerated the mutt because Bobby and Sam enjoyed the dog's company so much.

"Well..." Karen drawled. "Now that we know who loves Rummy, I want to know who loves _me_?"

"I do!" all three answered – the four-year old, the eight-year old...and the old man beside her.

Karen's smile lingered. "That's good. Because I love _you_ ," she told them and opened her arms wide toward her boys.

It was the only invitation they needed, Sam scampering toward the bed while Dean followed behind his little brother and gave the kid a boost onto the mattress before climbing up behind him.

"Mmm..." Karen hummed as she hugged her youngest, sweeping his floppy hair out of his face and kissing his forehead, then depositing him on Bobby's chest so she could reach for Dean.

Bobby groaned as if Sam weighed 100 pounds. "You're crushing me, squirt," he teased the scrawny four-year old as Sam giggled with delight. "What's your mama feeding you anyway?"

"Pancakes!" Sam replied, still giggling as his dad began tickling his sides.

Karen smiled, now hugging her oldest as she listened to her husband and her four-year old play.

Rumsfeld barked.

"Ugh..." Dean groaned at the sound and cut his eyes at the dog.

Karen laughed softly. "I know," she agreed, patting Dean's back and releasing him from her hold. "The things we put up with for those two, huh?"

Dean smiled and nodded.

Karen winked.

Sam squealed as Bobby's tickling continued. "Daddy!"

Bobby chuckled. "What? Do you surrender to the tickle monster?"

The only kind of monster any of them knew about.

Sam said nothing, instead dissolving into another round of giggles as he squirmed on his father's chest.

Karen shook her head – affection and exasperation in her expression – and then sighed.

"Alright, you two..." she warned in her borderline mom voice. "If the tickle monster is done with his attack, maybe we can all get up and go see about those pancakes."

...and that's where the dream ended.

Sometimes it went further and lasted longer.

But today...that's where it ended.

Karen flickering from view as Sam's laughter faded.

The only sound now being the sheets rustling as Bobby moved beneath them, becoming more fully awake and aware that he was alone.

The realization shouldn't sting, shouldn't _ache_ as much as it always did.

But it did.

* * *

 _ **TBC**_


	2. Chapter 2

Bobby sighed – because it was a damn shame to feel so bone-tired the second he woke up. He rubbed his hand down his face, lying on his back and blinking at the ceiling...and remembering that even though his life wasn't like his dream, that didn't mean he was completely alone.

That didn't mean his life was without joy, especially today.

Bobby smiled at the thought of the two little boys sleeping down the hall.

And while they didn't call him "Daddy," they _did_ call him "Uncle Bobby" – and that made his heart overflow with love just the same.

Because maybe he didn't father them, but those kids were _his_ , were more Bobby's than John's...especially these days.

Bobby snorted at the thought of John Winchester, the young father having shown up unannounced – per usual – on his front porch the previous night with a sleeping Sam in his arms and a drowsy Dean standing beside him.

"I need you to watch them."

Bobby had arched an eyebrow. "Well, hello to you, too..." he had greeted as John and the boys had entered his house.

John had scowled at Bobby's sarcastic tone and then had glared at Rumsfeld as the dog had approached, having realized John was holding Sam.

The Rottweiler's nubby tail had wagged as he had sniffed the four-year old's foot under Dean's watchful gaze.

Bobby had smiled at the interaction before closing the door behind him and turning to face the younger hunter.

"I need you to watch them," John had repeated, shifting his sleeping youngest higher in his arms and beyond Rumsfeld's reach.

The dog had snorted his disappointment at being denied contact with his favorite little boy and had sat down in the hallway, staring up at John.

"Watch them do what?" Bobby had asked at John's statement – as if the boys were going to perform tricks – and had winked at Dean as the eight-year old had laughed softly.

But John had not been amused as he had inhaled a measured breath before releasing it slowly.

"Bobby..."

Bobby had blinked expectantly at John and then had returned his attention to Dean as the big brother had reached up for Sam.

"I'll take him now."

...which meant Dean had reached his limit for how long he could last without physical contact with his little brother.

And from his expression, it seemed Dean had also sensed the impending showdown between his dad and Bobby...and he wasn't allowing them to wake up his kid.

John had glanced at his oldest while Dean had signaled with his hands – the classic "hand him over" gesture – and had waited with outstretched arms.

John had hesitated and then had sighed. "Fine," he had relented and had bent to transfer Sam into Dean's embrace.

Rumsfeld had watched them. His tail once again wagging, his ears perked in anticipation of Sam being more easily accessible now that an eight-year old was holding him instead of a man who stood over six feet tall.

But those hopes had been instantly dashed.

"No," Dean had growled in warning and had glared at the dog.

Rumsfeld had whined but had obeyed, not daring to move.

Dean had wrapped his arms around his brother, accepting Sam's weight and settling the four-year old against him like the pro he was.

Sam had made a sound in his sleep – half grunt, half whimper – and had furrowed his forehead like a fussy baby.

Bobby had frowned, recognizing that expression.

"What's wrong with him?"

"I don't know," John had replied, his exhaustion making him sound and look disinterested as he had watched Sam wrap himself more fully around his brother, clinging to Dean even in his sleep and burrowing his face into the eight-year old's neck.

"You don't know?" Bobby had repeated, reminded that no one could make him want to punch them in the face quite like John Winchester. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? You're their dad. It's your _job_ to know if something is wrong with one of your kids."

John had shrugged. "I think maybe he's just tired."

Bobby had pulled a face at the overly simplistic explanation.

Because yeah – this close to midnight, a four-year old _should_ be tired.

But whatever was going on with Sam was more than that, was more than "just tired".

Bobby had only been around the kid for a few minutes but even he knew that much – knew something was wrong with Sam just by observing the way his youngest was sleeping.

Dean had shaken his head, sighing like _he_ was tired – tired of dealing with a clueless father. "He doesn't feel good," the big brother had reported about the little boy he was holding.

"I know," Bobby had agreed, feeling like he was bonding with a fellow parent. "I can tell."

Because again...Bobby he had recognized Sam's expression earlier.

"What's wrong with him?" Bobby had repeated, knowing he should've been asking Dean all along.

Dean had shaken his head once more. "I'm not sure," he had admitted, sounding concerned as he had lightly propped his chin on Sam's head as it had rested on his shoulder. "He's been whiny the past couple of days and – "

" – he's always whiny," John had interrupted. "How can you tell a difference?"

Dean had cut his eyes at John like he had wanted to _cut_ his dad for insulting his kid.

"He's not always whiny," the big brother had defended about Sam and had hugged the four-year old a little closer as if he could protect the sleeping child from their father's words. "Give him a break. He's just a baby."

"He _acts_ like a baby because you _treat_ him like a baby," John had bitched at Dean.

"So, what's _your_ excuse for acting like an ass?" Bobby had countered sharply, feeling the heat of anger burn through him as a wave of protective instinct surged.

Because these were _his_ kids John was attacking – and the Papa Bear inside of Bobby wasn't tolerating that shit...especially not in his own house.

John had said nothing but had held Bobby's heated gaze.

Bobby had stared back, unblinking.

Dean had continued to hold his little brother.

Rumsfeld had changed positions, had sensed the simmering hostility between the two hunters and had moved closer to Dean, standing guard over him and Sam.

The tense silence in the hallway had stretched until John had finally looked away.

Bobby had felt a twinge of satisfaction and had stared at John a little longer – just to reaffirm he was _not_ to be fucked with – and then had refocused on Dean.

"What else about Sam?" Bobby had asked, resuming his conversation with the eight-year old as if they had not been rudely interrupted moments before.

Dean had smiled, appreciating Bobby in so many ways...but especially appreciating the way the older hunter worried about Sam, the way Bobby seemed to know Dean's little brother almost as well as Dean did.

"He keeps rubbing his eyes," Dean had reported about the four-year old. "Especially the left one...but this afternoon, he started rubbing the right one, too."

Bobby had tilted his head at the information. "Are his eyes red?"

"Kinda," Dean had replied. "He says they hurt and burn and itch."

Still standing in the hall and eavesdropping, John had frowned at the revelation as though it was the first time he had heard it. "When did he say that?"

"He's said it more than once," Dean had informed, not even looking at John.

"Huh..." Bobby had mused, his mind buzzing with possibilities. "Did something get _in_ his eyes?"

"No," Dean had answered confidently.

Bobby had nodded, because Dean would know. "Any fever?"

Because Dean would know that, too.

Dean had hesitated. "Well...not a _real_ fever. Just the kind of low-grade stuff he gets when he's trying to fight something off."

John had blinked at yet another revelation. "Sam's had a fever?"

"Not a real one," Dean had repeated, his tone reflecting his annoyance that John suddenly wanted to ask questions and be involved in Sam's care. "So far it's just been low-grade, so I've handled it."

"Handled it?" John had echoed, wondering how he had missed all of this. "What does that mean?"

"It means children's Tylenol and snuggle time," Bobby had answered with the authority of a man who had administered that exact treatment a time or two himself.

No one would have ever guessed a gruff old hunter like Bobby Singer would know anything about either topic...but he did.

Dean had smiled at Bobby and had nodded.

Bobby had winked at the eight-year old, both remembering the last time they had tag-teamed a slightly feverish, clingy Sam while the boys had been staying at Singer Salvage.

And Bobby was prepared to do it all again if Sam was getting sick...and if Dean would allow him the honor of helping.

Bobby had sighed. "Well, I guess we'll just have to wait and see," he had finally concluded about whatever was going on with Sam. "But since his primary symptom seems to be red, itchy eyes, maybe it's just allergies."

After all, the boys certainly stayed in their share of dusty old motels...and Sam was certainly the more sensitive of the two brothers.

"Yeah, maybe..." John had agreed distractedly about the possibility of his son's allergies flaring. "It's always something with Sam," he had added, once again sounding like the four-year old was an annoyance to have around.

Dean had scowled at the comment.

Bobby had done the same.

Because if Sam – and Dean, for that matter – were too much trouble for John, then maybe the younger hunter should just leave them with Bobby... _permanently_.

The older hunter would gladly live with the "burden" of these two boys.

Bobby had clenched his jaw at the ungrateful sonuvabitch standing in front of him, his hands fisting as he had imagined how good it would feel to knock John Winchester on his ass.

A heavy silence had returned to the hallway.

Still sitting beside Dean, Rumsfeld had twitched his stumpy tail as Sam had shifted in his sleep. The four-year old once again making that sound and flashing that expression of some nameless discomfort.

Bobby had frowned, not liking it at all – because _something_ was going on with this kid.

"S'okay," Dean had murmured and had rubbed his brother's back, smiling as Sam had settled beneath his touch.

John had sighed, then had glanced at Dean. "Take him up," he had told his oldest about Sam, nodding toward the stairs behind them. "And take care of him while I'm gone."

Dean's scowl had returned, annoyed by the order. "I always do."

Bobby had nodded.

John had hesitated, had seemed as though he had wanted to reach for his sons but had known a hug would've been both awkward and unwelcomed.

Dean had watched him, had glanced at John's hand as it had briefly rested on his shoulder and then had twisted away before John could touch Sam.

Access denied.

John had blinked, both surprised and unexpectedly stung by his son's actions.

"Bye," Dean had told his father and had turned, carrying his little brother up the stairs.

Rumsfeld had immediately followed.

"I'll see you in a few days," John had called, speaking to Dean's back.

"Whatever..." Dean had mumbled – uncharacteristically flippant to his father – and had paused, glancing over his shoulder. "See you in the morning, Uncle Bobby."

"I'll be here," Bobby had promised, staring at John to ensure the younger hunter had felt the jab meant for him.

Because Bobby would be there for Sam and Dean...while John would be Where-The-Fuck-Ever, USA.

"Holler if you need anything," Bobby had reminded as Dean had continued up the steps. "But everything should be in your room like usual."

Clothes, toiletries – everything the boys needed always stocked and waiting for their arrival...just like home.

"Thanks," Dean had replied, his voice muffled as he had reached the top of the stairs with Rumsfeld tagging along behind.

Bobby had waited for the bedroom door to close before returning his attention to John still standing in front of him.

John had stared back, instantly defensive. "What?"

Bobby had snorted. "Nothin'," he had drawled. "I'd just like to shove my foot up your ass."

John had pulled a face at the familiar threat.

The floor above them had creaked as Dean had begun the routine of getting himself and his little brother ready for bed.

John had glanced up, then back at Bobby. "I need you to watch them."

"So you've said..."

John had laughed – a hollow, humorless sound – and had sighed at Bobby's returned sarcasm. "Is that a yes?"

"Yes," Bobby had confirmed about the boys staying with him, because after all...Dean was already upstairs with Sam. "But I ain't doin' this for you."

John had nodded, well aware the only reason the older hunter ever did anything he asked of him was because of Sam and Dean.

"Thanks," John had offered for whatever it was worth. "I appreciate it. I've got this job that's come up a couple states over. I could take the boys, but..." He had shrugged. "This one might turn dangerous, so I figured they would be safer if they were with you."

"Damn right they will," Bobby had agreed. "But have you ever considered just passing a job to someone else? There _are_ other hunters."

"No," John had refused, his tone sharp. "One day, one of these jobs is going to lead me to Mary's killer."

"Yeah," Bobby had replied and had shaken his head at the delusion. "You keep tellin' yourself that. Meanwhile, your boys are growing up without you." He had paused. "How do you think your wife would feel about that?"

John had glared. "Don't talk about Mary like you knew her."

"I might not have known her," Bobby had allowed. "But I can't think of any mother who would want her children raised in this life...who would want them hauled around the country and routinely treated like an inconvenience."

"You shut your mouth, Singer," John had growled and had stepped forward threateningly.

Bobby had lifted his chin, had felt his hands fist in preparation.

Because if John wanted to come to blows over this, then so be it.

Bobby had waited years to kick the man's ass.

But John's fire had seemed to extinguish as quickly as it had ignited; the younger hunter struck by the weight of truth and the depth of his exhaustion, the weariness caused by this life.

Bobby had felt a twinge of disappointment as he had watched the fight drain from his opponent and had waited for John's next move.

John had shifted uncomfortably beneath the older hunter's intense gaze. "I have to do what I have to do," he had offered quietly and had shrugged at how lame that had sounded. "Just...take care of my boys while I'm gone."

"I always do," Bobby had told him, echoing Dean's words.

John had nodded. "And, uh...maybe keep an extra eye out for Sam? 'Cause I think Dean's right – there's something brewing."

Bobby had arched an eyebrow at the concern in John's tone, unexpectedly reminded that the young father _did_ care about his kids...he just often sucked at showing it – one of his many flaws at being a dad.

Upstairs a bed had creaked as Dean had settled himself and his brother under the covers.

John had glanced up, then had sighed and had rubbed his face with both hands. "Well..."

Bobby's attention had lingered on the ceiling, hearing Rumsfeld whine in the second floor hallway, apparently shut out of the boys' room by a big brother who wasn't sharing his Sammy.

Bobby had twitched a smile at the ongoing battle over Sam, waged between Dean and the overgrown puppy since the first day Rumsfeld had come to stay at Singer Salvage.

"Guess I better get going," John had suddenly announced and had crossed to the door, sidestepping Bobby. "I'll be in touch."

Bobby had nodded but had said nothing as he had watched John leave his house. The younger hunter's boots loud and heavy as they had descended the porch steps.

In the next instant, the Impala's engine had rumbled to life as John had cranked the muscle car and had steered her out of the yard.

Bobby had stood there in the doorway, hearing the wind chime's hollow clank as it had swayed in the cool evening breeze of early spring. The older hunter watching the Impala's taillights fade down his driveway.

And call him selfish, but Bobby really didn't care if John ever came back.

That was true last night...and it was still true this morning.

Because if John stayed gone, then the boys could stay with Bobby...and all three of their lives would be better as a result.

Bobby wasn't foolish enough to think they would live happily ever after since he had lived long enough to know life rarely worked that way.

But they would certainly live more happily than they were living now.

Just him and his boys together at Singer Salvage.

Bobby sighed at the thought – having imagined it more than once – and then inwardly shook himself, yawning and stretching and trying to find the motivation to get up.

Because he had laid there and daydreamed long enough.

It was time to get going and check on the boys, to make sure they were both okay before he showered and dressed and brewed some coffee so he could function like a human being.

Then he would need to start thinking about breakfast.

Because Dean would be starving when he woke up...and Sam would be...

Bobby blinked, remembering his youngest didn't feel well and would likely not be his usual adorably sweet self but instead a moody little grump whenever he woke up.

But that was okay.

Bobby loved his boys unconditionally...and that included loving an ornery four-year old with a pouty face.

Bobby smiled, then shivered at the chill that greeted him when he tossed back the blankets and sat up on the edge of his bed. His feet finding his slippers before he stood and crossed the room, grabbing his robe and his hat on the way out.

Shuffling down the hall and rubbing his face to further rouse himself, Bobby could see the boys' bedroom door was ajar as he approached – the crack just big enough for an overgrown puppy to squeeze through.

Bobby twitched a knowing smile, not surprised that Rumsfeld had somehow wormed his way in during the night and was now sleeping at the foot of the bed.

What _was_ surprising was that Dean had allowed him to stay.

Unless, of course, Dean had booted the dog from the bed...but Rumsfeld had returned later unnoticed.

"You're sneaky," Bobby whispered to the dog as Rumsfeld became aware of his presence by the door.

The Rottweiler began to squirm excitedly on top of the comforter, his stubby tail twitching as if he took that description as a compliment.

Bobby shook his head, holding his finger to his lips. "Don't wake them," he warned as Dean began to shift beneath the covers.

Rumsfeld froze, cautiously turning his head to stare at the eight-year old.

But Dean resettled, sinking deeper into the pillows and pulling Sam closer to him.

Bobby smiled at the gesture – Dean a protective big brother even in his sleep – and then tilted his head, angling for a better view of Sam.

But the four-year old was impossible to see from Bobby's position by the door, was just a familiar tuft of floppy brown hair wrapped in blankets and his big brother's arms, his face buried in Dean's chest.

Bobby sighed, anxious to get a look at his youngest in order to judge Sam's condition but reluctant to enter the room any further. The older hunter knowing that although Dean had slept through Rumsfeld's squirming, the eight-year old would _not_ sleep through someone approaching the bed. And Bobby didn't want to wake his kids.

He sighed again, resolving himself to wait, and then smiled at Rumsfeld as the dog stretched out on his side, clearly planning to snooze for as long as the brothers did.

Bobby lingered at the door, because this was part of his dream – his boys and their dog.

The only piece missing was Karen.

Bobby swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat. "I miss you," he whispered to her, like he sometimes did when he was overwhelmed by her absence.

Then he would picture her smiling, nodding, understanding...and responding in her classic way.

"Don't start your shit with me, Singer," she used to tell him to lighten the moment whenever he started getting sappy. "I'm wearing mascara. And you are _not_ making me cry," she would inform even as she would stare at him with misty eyes.

Bobby twitched a smile at the memory and then refocused himself.

Because watching his kids sleep and reminiscing about his wife were two of his joys...but that was not moving his day forward. And he had a lot to accomplish before his boys were awake.

Bobby nodded in agreement and reluctantly turned, leaving Sam and Dean's door cracked behind him as he headed toward his bathroom to carry out his morning routine.

* * *

 _ **TBC**_


	3. Chapter 3

Bobby was showered and dressed but still not fully awake as he stood at the kitchen counter, alternately supervising the coffeemaker and glancing out the window.

The early morning sun had been replaced with thick dark clouds threatening rain, and Bobby began to consider his options for keeping two little boys entertained if they wound up staying inside for the majority of the day.

Even at only four-years old, Sam always seemed content to look at Bobby's numerous books and was delighted to play with Rumsfeld. Those two activities paired with time spent eating meals, watching TV, and taking naps would easily keep Sam happy and occupied.

But Dean...he was harder. He would be relaxed and content while taking care of Sam but otherwise would become restless and edgy if he was cooped up all day with nothing else to do.

...which was why Bobby needed to develop his game plan _now_ before the rain started and his boys woke up.

Bobby sighed, wondering how Sam would feel this morning and knowing if the four-year old was indeed sick, the day's plan would take care of itself as they settled into the familiar routine of monitoring a fever, dispensing Tylenol, and holding a clingy kid.

Bobby rubbed his hand over his face and sighed again, hating the worry that always came whenever one of his kids didn't feel well.

"Don't borrow trouble, old man," Karen would tell him whenever she caught him brooding over something he couldn't change, and Bobby could see her standing there now, smiling at him fondly as she leaned in the doorway.

Bobby returned the smile and nodded. "You're right," he replied, well aware he was talking to himself but he didn't care.

When the boys were on the road with John, Karen was the only company – the only family – Bobby had. He appreciated her memory and wished – wished so damn much – that she could have met Sam and Dean. She would have adored them and given them the maternal influence they both so desperately needed.

Karen had wanted children so badly, but...

Bobby shook his head, refusing to follow that train of thought, and distracted himself instead. He had reached for the coffeepot and was pouring a cup of much-needed caffeine when the morning's silence was shattered by a four-year old's sudden screaming.

Bobby turned around so fast he almost dropped the coffeepot. His initial reaction was to run upstairs, but he held himself still; reminded that although it always gave him a slight heart attack, it wasn't unusual for Sam to wake up like this – screaming and scared about something he had dreamed.

Even still, Bobby could feel his instincts buzzing – part hunter, part Papa Bear – as he stood in the center of the kitchen, ready for action at the first indication of trouble beyond just the trauma of a nightmare. He listened as Dean's name was called in a panicked yell and then followed by equally panicked crying.

Although Dean had likely been asleep up until the past few moments, his response was instant – a soothing combination of whispers and shushes and _Sammy_ repeated over and over. The eight-year old an expert at calming his kid startled awake by a bad dream.

Bobby could picture Dean sitting up in bed, bringing Sam with him and holding the four-year old in his lap as he rubbed Sam's back while his little brother cried into his shoulder.

"Shhh, Sammy. You're okay. It was just a bad dream," Dean murmured, and Bobby knew the big brother now had his arms fully wrapped around the four-year old clinging to him.

But whatever was going on upstairs seemed to be more than just a bad dream.

Because Sam wasn't settling as he normally did. If anything, he was becoming more upset.

Bobby frowned and approached the stairs.

Although he knew Dean could handle any situation involving Sam, Bobby also knew sometimes big brothers could use a little backup and he was prepared to lend whatever help he could.

"What's wrong?" Dean asked, sounding alarmed as he began to realize he was dealing with something more than Sam's reaction to a dream.

Bobby wondered if Sam answered with a gesture since he didn't hear his youngest speak.

Sam just continued to cry – the gasping, hiccupping sobs of a truly distraught child.

"It's okay, Sammy. Just let me see," Dean urged.

And Bobby could picture Dean holding Sam at arm's length, ducking his head as he tried to see his brother's face.

"What the hell..."

Bobby paused on the steps, feeling his heart sink at the tone of Dean's voice and knowing the eight-year old didn't like whatever he had just seen.

"Sammy. Look at me. Open your eyes."

Short, direct orders given by a big brother trying to triage his kid.

"I c-can't!" the four-year old replied through his tears before freshly sobbing his panic and fear.

Bobby frowned and continued up the steps, hearing Dean trying to soothe an increasingly hysterical Sam as Rumsfeld joined in the chaos with a mixture of high-pitched whining and sharp barks.

All hell was breaking loose upstairs, and Bobby was already outside the boys' room when Dean shouted his name.

"I'm right here," Bobby answered, seeing the relief in Dean's expression as he appeared in the doorway. "What's going on?"

Hearing his master's voice, Rumsfeld turned toward Bobby; the dog moving restlessly at the foot of the bed, sensing the brothers' agitation and still barking as if he was calling for help.

"That's enough," Bobby informed the Rottweiler and snapped his fingers, silencing the dog as he entered the room. "Down," he ordered and nodded when Rumsfeld jumped from the mattress to the floor, then trotted to the doorway to watch. "Good boy," Bobby praised, one situation successfully handled, and returned his attention to the primary crisis.

Dean stared up him, holding a crying Sam and looking uncharacteristically spooked even as he kept his voice steady. "Something's wrong with Sam's eyes," he reported, his expression reflecting his confusion and concern over whatever he had seen earlier. "He can't open them."

Bobby arched an eyebrow. "Can't...or won't?"

Because Bobby loved that four-year old squirt in the Superman pajamas...but sometimes Sam could be a stubborn little cuss, especially when he was cranky and didn't feel well.

" _Can't_ ," Dean replied, emphasizing the word since he knew what Bobby was thinking. "He _can't_ open them. They're kinda swollen...and they're all crusty and stuck together."

"Th-they h-h-hurt!"

"I know, Sammy," Dean soothed, leaning his head against Sam's as the kid wallowed on his shoulder. The big brother not caring that the four-year old was smearing all kinds of grossness on his Batman t-shirt. "It's okay. I'm gonna fix it."

But before he could fix it, Dean needed to know what he was dealing with...and he had no clue. He had never seen anyone's eyes look as disgusting as Sam's did right now – which was why he was counting on Bobby to help sort this out.

Bobby nodded, understanding Dean's expectation as he absorbed this most recent information and remembered Dean's comments the night before about Sam's eyes having bothered the kid for days.

Itchy, red eyes...a low-grade fever...and now some type of discharge that had apparently accumulated and drained, then had caked and dried overnight...

Bobby nodded once more as he thought, sorting through the conditions that would cause those symptoms and feeling confident he knew what was going on here. He just needed to actually _see_ Sam's eyes in order to confirm.

Sitting on the bed, Dean continued to stare up at the older hunter while rubbing his little brother's shuddering back as Sam sat in his lap and sniffled into Dean's shoulder. The four-year old still clearly upset and miserable but quieter now, trusting Dean to take care of everything and comforted as long as his big brother was holding him.

The scene tugged at Bobby's heart, and he crouched beside the bed. "Let me see," he told Dean, watching as his oldest smoothly turned Sam to face him.

Sam leaned back into his brother's chest, his small hands anxiously fisting the blankets as Bobby's thumbs swept over his damp, flushed cheeks. "U-Uncle B-B-Bobby?"

Bobby smiled at his name stuttered through lingering tears. "Mornin', squirt," he greeted, keeping his tone light and cheery even as he frowned at the goopy, crusty mess completely coating Sam's puffy eyes.

No wonder the kid couldn't open them...and no wonder the four-year old had panicked at that realization.

Bobby's expression was sympathetic and his touch was soft as he gently palpated the swollen area around Sam's eyes; his fingers skimming over eyelids stuck shut.

Except for an occasional sniffle or shaky inhalation, Sam sat quiet and still in Dean's lap.

"Well..." Dean prompted after several seconds of waiting for Bobby to finish his examination. The big brother's hand splayed in the center of Sam's chest, his thumb rubbing over his kid's collarbone in a soothing motion. "You know what this is, right? And how to fix it?"

Bobby quirked a smile at the confidence in Dean's voice; the eight-year old rarely losing his proverbial cool. Always keeping it together for Sam. Dean knowing if he wasn't sure how to make sense of the situation...he knew a guy who usually did.

And Bobby was that guy.

Bobby was Dean's backup, and it was an honor the older hunter was proud to have earned over the years.

Whether the boys were at Singer Salvage or on the road, Bobby was always just a call away.

"Bobby..."

Bobby blinked, realizing Dean was becoming impatient and Sam was becoming fidgety as they waited for his response.

"What is this?" Dean asked about whatever was going on with Sam's eyes. His expression reminding Bobby to be honest but vague if the diagnosis would scare the four-year old sitting between them.

Bobby nodded and stood, his achy old knees protesting the crouch he had held for several minutes. "As best I can tell, it's conjunctivitis."

Dean narrowed his eyes at the unfamiliar term, quickly scanning his internal catalog of supernatural entities and finding no match. "What causes that? And how did it get to Sam?" he demanded, the big brother _pissed_ that something had slipped by him to hurt his kid. "How long do we have? If we track it, find it, and kill it, will it reverse the effects?"

Bobby shook his head, recognizing which direction Dean's initial thoughts had gone and feeling saddened that an eight-year old would immediately suspect a supernatural cause...and then would just as quickly assume the only way to fix this was to hunt and kill.

Thank you, John Winchester, for your influence on your son's life.

Bobby sighed and rubbed his bearded jaw. "No, Dean. This ain't what you're thinking," he assured, holding the eight-year old's gaze. "This is just an eye infection. Ever heard of pink eye?"

Dean shrugged.

Bobby snorted, not surprised that Dean could name over a dozen supernatural creatures...but was unfamiliar with something as common as pink eye. If that wasn't representative of Dean's childhood, Bobby didn't know what was...

The older hunter sighed once more. "Well, anyway...I'm pretty sure that's what Sam has – pink eye. Probably bacterial from the looks of it, which means it should begin to clear up in a couple days once we get a few doses of medicine in."

Dean noticeably relaxed at the news, his posture sagging just a bit as the tension released from his body. "Oh." He held Sam a little tighter in his lap and flashed a small smile further reflecting his relief. "That's good. That's _really_ good."

Bobby nodded his agreement, wondering what kind of horrible scenarios Dean had been quietly harboring over the past several minutes.

"So..." Dean commented, glancing at Sam and then back to Bobby. "How 'bout that medicine now?"

Because Dean wanted his kid's eyes clean and open. He wanted Sam to feel better, wanted to see the kid smile and hear him laugh as he played with that obnoxious dog still standing at the door, watching them this entire time.

"Well..." Bobby drawled, readjusting his hat. "Once the clinic opens, we'll need to make a quick trip to town."

Dean scowled at the mention of a doctor and felt Sam tense in his arms. "Why? Don't you have what we need?"

Bobby shook his head, feeling a twinge of guilt at letting down his boys. "No. I have eye drops, of course, but Sam needs _antibiotic_ eye drops. And I don't usually keep those on hand."

...though that would change after today.

The older hunter was always learning what kind of medications and supplies to keep stocked to treat conditions common in children. But whenever Bobby thought he was finally well-prepared, one of his boys would throw a curveball...and it was usually Sam.

"Can't we do anything _now_?" Dean persisted, a man of action even at eight-years old.

Bobby gave an understanding smile, sharing the big brother's urgency about making their youngest more comfortable. "Damn right we can," he replied and nodded toward the four-year old. "May I?"

The older hunter always asking permission before taking Sam from Dean.

Because nobody just snatched a cub from its Mama Bear.

Dean smiled, appreciating how well Bobby knew him, and nodded his consent to the older hunter before returning his attention to his little brother still sitting in his lap, leaning back against his chest.

"Sammy..." Dean began, carding his hand through his kid's hair. "You're gonna go with Uncle Bobby now, okay?"

"'Kay," Sam agreed, trusting and compliant, and was raising his hand to rub his burning, itchy eyes...when he was stopped by Bobby's reach.

"C'mon, squirt," the older hunter called, lifting Sam and settling the four-year old in his arms. "Let's head to the bathroom and get those eyes cleaned up," he commented, brushing the kid's bangs away from the gooey mess.

"Yes, please," Sam replied, adorably polite, and twisted in Bobby's embrace, turning in the direction he knew his brother was still sitting. "Is Dean coming, too?"

"Damn right I am," Dean assured, the mattress squeaking as he climbed out of bed and followed Bobby out of the room.

Sam rested his head on Bobby's shoulder and reached blindly for Dean.

Dean smiled at the gesture and grasped his little brother's outstretched hand as they made their way down the hall with Rumsfeld tagging along behind.

* * *

 _ **TBC**_


	4. Chapter 4

Bobby switched on the light with his elbow, then reached for the faucet before settling Sam on the bathroom counter.

"We need that warm but not hot," he told Dean about the water swirling in the sink.

"Got it," Dean replied and stepped forward, keeping one hand under the flow and the other on Sam; the eight-year old monitoring both water temperature and a squirmy little brother as Bobby disappeared in the hall.

Rumsfeld hesitated, torn between staying with the brothers and following his master...but then trotted off behind Bobby.

"Dean..."

Dean glanced at Sam, waiting for his brother to continue before remembering Sam couldn't see him with those crusty, stuck together eyes...which meant the four-year old didn't know he had Dean's attention.

"Dean..." Sam called again, patting Dean's hand as it rested on his leg.

Dean smiled at the cuteness. "Yeah, Sammy. I'm right here."

Sam sighed and began tracing Dean's fingers with one of his own. "I don't wanna go to the doctor."

"Too bad, so sad," Dean quipped, waving his hand beneath the water as if doing so would make it warm up faster.

"But I don't _like_ the doctor."

"I know. Me neither. But we're not taking votes on this, Sammy. If Bobby says we gotta go – "

" – then we gotta go," Sam finished, well aware of how that rule worked with adults. He sighed once more. "You're coming with me, right?"

Dean pulled a face at the obvious answer. "What do _you_ think?"

Sam smiled shyly, knowing his big brother would go wherever he did. The anxious four-year old was just seeking reassurance. "Will it hurt?"

Dean answered with another question of his own. "Would I ever let anyone hurt you?"

Sam shook his head. "Never _ever_."

Dean smiled at the trust and confidence in his little brother's voice and glanced at Rumsfeld as the dog wandered into the bathroom. His nails clicking on the tile floor as he pushed past Dean and began licking Sam's bare feet.

Sam flinched in surprise, then squealed in delight. "Rummy, quit it! That tickles!" the four-year old whined, even as he giggled and squirmed from his perch on the bathroom counter.

"Stop before you make him fall," Dean scolded the Rottweiler, though he was thankful Sam was laughing now instead of crying – especially since that was likely to change once they started cleaning his eyes.

"Alright, mutt. That'll do," Bobby told the dog as he returned to the bathroom with two washcloths. "Out."

Rumsfeld snorted at the command but obeyed, moseying back to the hallway and sitting with a sigh.

"Good boy," Bobby praised the overgrown puppy and then nodded at the water gurgling down the drain. "Ready?"

"Ready," Dean replied, drying his hand on his sweatpants and watching as Bobby held one of the washcloths beneath the warm flow.

Sam fidgeted in the silence, sensing what was about to happen.

"Sam..." Bobby began, wringing out the excess water from the cloth. "I'm gonna hold this washcloth against your eyes for a minute to help loosen up some of this crud, okay? Then after it's a little softer, we'll be able to clean it away and you'll be able to open your eyes. Sound good?"

Sam looked uncertain but nodded, his small hand once again seeking Dean's.

Dean laced their fingers and gave an encouraging squeeze, smiling at his anxious kid still sitting on the counter. "Piece of cake. Right, Sammy?"

Sam nodded again but said nothing, biting his lower lip instead.

Bobby brushed Sam's bangs from his forehead, noting the kid felt a little warmer than before. "I think that fever's trying for a comeback," he commented, glancing at Dean.

"Crap."

"Yeah," Bobby agreed, adding _dose Sam with Tylenol_ to their to-do list...right after they got the kid's eyes clean and open. "Alright, squirt. Here we go..." he warned before gently pressing the cloth against the four-year old's left eye and holding it there.

Sam made a sound close to a whimper, his bottom lip quivering like he wanted to cry.

Dean frowned, knowing his little brother didn't feel well – which made the kid more prone to tears – and then sighed, preparing to speak, to do something to distract Sam when Bobby beat him to it.

"You got to know when to hold 'em," the older hunter started singing softly, winking at Dean when the eight-year old arched an eyebrow. "Know when to fold 'em. Know when to walk away. Know when to run..." He paused, still holding the cloth against Sam's eye. "C'mon, squirt. You gonna help me out?"

Sam inhaled a shaky breath, close to tears but unable to resist the invitation to help their Uncle Bobby sing one of his favorite songs. "Y-you never count your money..."

"...when you're sittin' at the table," Bobby continued, smiling at his youngest and at the expression on Dean's face; the eight-year old amused but also cringing at the inarguable fact that Bobby had somehow gotten his little brother hooked on country music.

Dean hoped it was just a passing phase.

But Bobby's plan of distraction was working.

Sam had noticeably perked up, even showing a hint of a smile.

And although Dean was happy his little brother was happy, that didn't mean he wanted to join in the sing-along.

But Bobby was staring at him and Sam was squeezing his hand, both obviously waiting for him to add the next lyric.

Dean inwardly groaned. He knew the song since it played on repeat in Bobby's truck, so...

"There'll be time enough for countin'..." he finally chimed in.

"...when the dealing's done," all three finished in unison along with Rumsfeld's excited barks.

Sam's giggle mixed with Bobby's chuckle, while Dean felt like he needed to rinse his mouth with Zeppelin lyrics as soon as possible.

"That was fun!" Sam declared, not paying any attention to the washcloth still held against his face.

"It was," Bobby agreed, chuckling once more as Dean remained silent. "Alright, squirt..." he commented, lifting the edge of the cloth. "Let's see how we're doing here."

Dean tilted his head for a better view and wrinkled his nose at the mess smeared across the fabric; the warm water having effectively dissolved the crusty discharge that had coated Sam's eye earlier and now looked like a combination of snot and melted wax.

 _That's gross_ , Dean silently mouthed to Bobby.

The older hunter hummed his agreement, then returned his attention to the child sitting on the counter in front of them. "Good news, squirt," he announced, folding the washcloth in order to use the clean side to finish wiping Sam's eye. "Looks like our trick is working."

"Your tricks always work, Uncle Bobby," Sam replied, scrunching his face as Bobby carefully cleared the remaining gunk away from the corner of his left eye and across his eyelid.

"Well, almost always," Bobby allowed, giving a final swipe over Sam's eye and feeling an unexpected swell of love for this kid who truly believed he could do anything. "Okay, squirt. Open your peeper and look at me."

Sam giggled at the funny word and did as he was told, slowly opening his left eye and giving it a few experimental blinks before focusing on Bobby...then immediately looking at Dean.

Dean smiled. "Hey, Cyclops."

Sam pulled a face, not really knowing what Dean meant but knowing his big brother was teasing him. "Nuh-uh. _You're_ a Cyclops."

Bobby chuckled at the banter. "Alright, you two..." he drawled, tossing the washcloth on the counter and washing his hands before reaching for Sam's face, keeping his touch light as he pressed around the four-year old's eye. "It's still a little swollen. And definitely still red and irritated."

Dean nodded, his earlier teasing replaced with concern as he stared at Sam's inflamed eye. "Does it still hurt, Sammy?"

"Uh-huh," Sam answered in a pitiful tone that twisted his big brother's heart. "And it itches, too," he added, pulling his hand from Dean's grasp and raising it to rub his eye.

"Whoa, squirt..." Bobby called, reaching to block Sam's hand at the same time as Dean.

"You have to leave it alone," Dean instructed, echoing the words he had repeated constantly over the days leading up to now, the days when pink eye was just starting to show symptoms.

"But – "

" – no buts," Dean interrupted and held his brother's one-eyed gaze.

Sam sighed, already trying to figure out how he could rub his eye without Dean noticing...but Dean was too smart and was always watching.

"Sammy..."

"Fine," Sam muttered, every bit an ornery, pouty four-year old in that moment.

Bobby smiled at the little grump now sitting on the counter with his arms crossed over his chest. "Hey, you. Mr. Cranky Pants..." he called, nudging the kid's knee with his hip as he reached for the second washcloth.

Sam looked at him.

"Yeah, _you_ ," Bobby replied and nudged the kid's knee again. "Dean's right. Rubbing your eyes will just make them more irritated and possibly spread infection. So, ditch the cranky pants routine and turn that frown upside down," he told the four-year old, indeed earning a small smile at the repeated use of _cranky pants_. "That's better," he praised and held the washcloth under the warm water continuing to flow down the sink.

Sam glanced at his brother. "Sorry for being a cranky pants."

Dean smiled at his sweet kid who was always the first to apologize. "It's okay, Sammy. I'm used to it," he teased with a wink.

Sam pushed Dean's shoulder even as he smiled back.

Bobby wrung out the excess water and folded the second washcloth as he had done with the first. "Alright, squirt. Round two..." he warned, raising the fabric to Sam's face but stopping when Dean reached for the cloth.

"I'll do it," Dean informed, the eight-year old no longer content to watch someone else take care of his little brother.

Bobby hesitated.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "I watched you do the first one. It's not a big deal," he pointed out, annoyed at being denied his right as a big brother to tend to Sam.

"I know you _can_ do it," Bobby assured, having witnessed the eight-year old lay stitches better than some grown men and knowing his oldest could certainly handle cleaning a crusty eye. "I just don't think you _should_."

Dean arched an eyebrow, sensing there was more and waiting for the older hunter to explain. Because he knew his first aid skills weren't in question, so there had to be another factor.

Bobby sighed. "Pink eye is highly contagious, Dean. That's why I'm using two separate washcloths to clean each eye and washing my hands before and after touching them. It's contagious as hell."

Dean shrugged. "So? Sam's been showing symptoms for days, and I've been taking care of him that whole time...which means I've already been exposed. And anyway, I don't care. If I get it, I get it."

Sam's left eye widened in alarm at the idea that he might make his big brother sick. "No! I don't want you to get it."

Dean shook his head. "It's okay, Sammy. I'll be fine."

"You don't know that," Bobby responded, blunt but honest. "And the last thing we need is a case of pink eye bouncing back and forth between the two of you. Hell, I'm sure there are some people who would say you didn't even need to be _around_ Sam, much less helping take care of him."

Dean snorted. "Yeah. Good luck with that," he commented about the likelihood of him staying away from his little brother.

Sam could have the worst, most contagious disease imaginable and Dean would still be right there beside him...because that's where he belonged.

Bobby sighed again, knowing he was on the losing end of this battle. "Dean – "

" – no," Dean interrupted and shrugged his apology at defying the older hunter. "I understand what you're saying, Bobby, and I appreciate you trying to look out for me...for _us_ ," he continued, surprisingly polite and mature. "But Sam's my responsibility and I take care of what's mine." He glanced at his little brother who was sitting still and quiet on the counter, listening to all of this. "Right, Sammy?"

Sam nodded, even though he looked upset by the underlying tension in the conversation; the four-year old not wanting to be the reason Dean and Uncle Bobby were arguing.

Dean frowned at the moisture gathering in Sam's squinted left eye, the salty tears undoubtedly stinging more than usual since the eye was already inflamed with infection.

"It's okay," Dean soothed, taking the cold washcloth from Bobby's grasp and returning it to the sink to rewarm. "It's all settled now," he promised his sensitive kid about the minor disagreement and glanced at Bobby.

Bobby smiled reassuringly. "He's right, squirt. Everything's fine."

And Bobby hoped that was true. He still had concerns but Dean had made a valid point – the eight-year old had already been exposed to pink eye, had already been up close and personal as evidenced by the discharge smeared across his t-shirt from when Sam had clung to him earlier.

What was done, was done. There was no changing it now.

But Bobby was still concerned.

"You're doing it again," Karen would lightly admonish whenever she caught Bobby standing on the porch, staring out at nothing and worrying over things beyond his control.

"I can't help it," he would tell her, feeling her hug him from behind and press her cheek to his back as she inhaled his scent.

"I know," she would answer, holding him tight and understanding him in a way no one ever had. "But all we can do now is wait and see...and hope for the best."

Bobby smiled at the memory of that advice and glanced at the door, seeing his wife standing there in the hallway behind Rumsfeld.

Karen smiled in return.

Then out of nowhere, thunder boomed across the sky, shaking the house and startling Bobby from his thoughts.

Sam gasped Dean's name and reached for his brother. The four-year old terrified of storms after that incident in Oklahoma when a band of severe weather had resulted in an outbreak of tornadoes...and a night spent huddled beneath a mattress in a motel bathtub.

Dean had talked until he was hoarse that night, hoping Sam would focus on his voice instead of the eerie whine of the alarms echoing all over that small town.

And the strategy had worked...until the moaning wind had transformed into the roar of an oncoming train – that unmistakable sound, that crushing pressure.

It had been heading straight for them.

Dean could still hear Sam _screaming_ , could still hear the tornado _ripping apart_ the line of motel rooms across from theirs.

It had lasted barely a minute...but time had stretched in way Dean had never experienced.

When the chaos had ended, the silence that had followed had somehow been louder than the destructive force of the twister's fury.

Sam had cried himself to sleep that night as Dean had held him, both brothers hidden in the bathtub until morning. Until John had returned...

Thunder rumbled again, and Sam became hysterical, launching himself from the counter into Dean's embrace.

Dean was ready, catching his brother and shushing him as he held the four-year old close and twisted slightly, back and forth in a soothing motion.

Bobby frowned, knowing Sam wasn't a fan of storms but never seeing the child react like this.

"This is new," Dean confirmed but offered no other details since he knew Bobby would be _pissed_ if he knew what had happened several weeks ago while they were by themselves in a motel room.

Bobby wanted to pry but said nothing as he watched Dean step around him and sit on the closed toilet, settling Sam in his lap and rubbing the kid's back.

Realizing Sam was within closer reach, Rumsfeld trotted into the bathroom, nuzzling Sam's side and whining at the child's distress.

"Not now," Dean scolded and was about to push the dog away until Sam turned and held out his hand.

Rumsfeld's ears perked and he licked the small fingers, his nubby tail wagging as he did his best to cheer up his favorite little boy.

The old house creaked as the wind blew against it before rain began to splatter on the tin roof.

"See?" Dean told his sniffling kid, glancing up at the ceiling. "It's just rain, Sammy."

 _Not a tornado_ , he left unsaid but knew the four-year old would hear that reassurance as well.

Sam inhaled a shaky breath and leaned into Dean, resting his head on his brother's shoulder.

"And you know what you get to wear when it rains at Uncle Bobby's house, right?"

Sam was silent for a moment before sitting up and staring at Dean; his left eye red and puffy but still open, while his right eye was still shut and a complete mess.

Dean smiled, his heart twisting for his tired, upset kid who didn't feel well. "Tell me," he encouraged his little brother as he glanced at Bobby, nodding at the washcloth he had left on the counter.

Bobby returned the nod and doused the rag with warm water for the third time.

"What do you get to wear, Sammy?" Dean pressed, accepting the washcloth.

"My ga-galoshes," Sam answered through lingering tears as he remained in Dean's lap, facing his big brother.

Dean nodded, lifting the washcloth to Sam's face. "Yep. You got it," he agreed, keeping his touch gentle as he covered Sam's right eye. "And what color are they?" he asked, continuing the conversation to distract his kid.

"Y-yellow."

"Bet you can't name any words that rhyme with 'yellow'," Dean challenged, winking at Bobby since they both knew Sam would take the bait.

"Can _so_ ," Sam replied with a hint of sass and proceeded to list several words, more focused on the rhyming task than on the weather grumbling outside or the washcloth held against his sensitive eye.

Bobby smiled, always impressed with how seamlessly Dean handled his little brother...and with how smart Sam was.

"Good job, Sammy," Dean praised as the four-year old concluded his lengthy list.

Sam beamed, then winced as Dean carefully removed the cloth and used the clean edge to dab around Sam's eye.

"Okay, Sammy..." Dean called, tossing the washcloth to join the other one on the counter. "Let me see. Open your eye."

Bobby crossed the small space to stand behind Dean and see for himself as Sam slowly opened his right eye and blinked at them. "Looks about the same as the left," he commented about the amount of inflammation and swelling.

Dean nodded. "Yeah. But at least they're _both_ open now...right, Sammy?"

Sam returned the nod and glanced at the ceiling as thunder rolled once more.

"Just rain," Dean reminded and rubbed Sam's chest, refocusing his kid.

Sam sniffled and blinked at Dean, the reflex slow and painful.

Dean frowned and looked up at Bobby still standing beside him. "Is the clinic open yet?"

"Should be," Bobby replied. "But I figured we'd eat breakfast first, then – "

" – no," Dean interrupted, shaking his head. "We've already waited long enough. Sam should've probably had drops days ago."

"Maybe so," Bobby allowed. "But I don't see where another hour would..."

His voice faded as Dean continued to shake his head, the eight-year old refusing to be swayed.

Bobby sighed. "Aren't you hungry?" he asked, feeling as though he was neglecting one of his duties if he took the boys to town without feeding them first.

"Sammy's not gonna eat anything right now," Dean answered with the confidence of a big brother who knew his little brother. "And I'm hungry, but I can wait. Sammy comes first."

Bobby smiled.

How could he argue with that?

* * *

 _ **TBC**_


	5. Chapter 5

The ride to the clinic was long and quiet, just the familiar rumble of an engine filling the cab of Bobby's truck along with the rhythmic squeak of windshield wipers and the hiss of tires on wet asphalt.

And while Bobby understood the silence, he didn't like it.

He much preferred when the truck was filled with four-year old chatter as Sam would point out the window and ask questions or make comments.

Then when Sam tired of that, he would tell silly stories and laugh and hum and sometimes try to sing along with whatever song was on the radio, adorably making up his own lyrics when he wasn't quite sure what was really being said.

And Dean would roll his eyes at his little brother but would sometimes sing as well...and would answer the kid's questions and nod or shake his head and offer his own comments.

And Bobby would sometimes join in...or would just sit and drive and enjoy the moment as he spent time with his boys.

But this morning, neither brother had said a word as they traveled to town.

Because this morning, things were different.

Bobby sighed, remembering how his heart had leapt to his throat when Sam had woke up screaming; the four-year old scared and panicked when he couldn't open his eyes.

And although the initial crisis was over and Sam was calmer now, the kid was still miserable...and Dean was still on edge.

The silence in the truck practically vibrated with the big brother's worry.

Bobby sighed again and glanced in his rearview before glancing at the brothers across the bench seat.

Riding between Bobby and Dean, Sam sniffled as he sat nestled under the protective shelter of Dean's arm; the four-year old leaning against the eight-year old's side and allowing his big brother to fuss over him.

From the passenger seat, Dean kept a constant check on his little brother, making sure his kid's eyes were still relatively clean and open, and that Sam's low-grade fever wasn't climbing any higher.

But when Dean wasn't tending to Sam, the eight-year old was staring out the rain-streaked windshield, lost in his own thoughts as he relived the past few days and wondered if he could have done something to prevent Sam's eye infection.

Maybe...but then again, maybe not.

It was a hard lesson Dean was beginning to learn – that no matter what he did, there would be times in their lives when he couldn't always protect Sam from bad things.

That truth was a jagged pill to swallow.

Dean sighed and glanced at Bobby, feeling the older hunter watching him.

Bobby said nothing – allowing Dean his space – but briefly held the eight-year old's gaze before refocusing on the road.

Several minutes passed.

The silence stretched.

Sam shifted, immediately attracting Dean's attention.

"Sammy. What's wrong?"

"My eyes hurt," Sam whimpered, the four-year old having said little else since they had left Bobby's house.

Dean nodded at the expected report. "I know. It's okay. We're almost there."

"Your brother's right, squirt," Bobby confirmed, signaling to turn off the highway. "We'll be at the clinic in a few minutes. Then we'll get you fixed up and you'll be good as new."

Sam processed the information, experience having taught that sometimes being "fixed up" involved even more pain.

"Are they gonna hurt me?"

"No," Dean assured, his tone sharp at the idea that he would allow someone to hurt his little brother. "What did I tell you before? I won't let anybody hurt you."

Bobby smiled, his heart warmed by Dean's protective instincts when it came to Sam.

But...

"It might hurt a little," the older hunter amended, shrugging his apology to Dean when the eight-year old glared at him over Sam's head.

Sam's red, puffy eyes widened at the news. "A _little_ little...or _a lot_ little?"

Bobby chuckled at the four-year old's attempt to differentiate between levels of pain.

"A _little_ little," Dean answered, once again trying to reassure his brother about what was waiting for him at the clinic. "But you can take it, right?"

Sam hesitated before nodding.

Dean returned the nod. "And _why_ can you take it? Because..."

"Because _you're_ with me," Sam replied confidently.

The four-year old totally missing that his big brother was pointing at the emblem on his pajama shirt as Dean implied that Sam could withstand any pain because he was Superman.

But Sam's answer was even better...and more accurate.

Because both brothers could handle anything as long as they were together – _that_ was their superpower.

Dean smiled, briefly burying his face in the floppy hair of this kid he loved so much, and held Sam close.

Sam relaxed deeper into Dean's embrace, humming a sigh the way he sometimes did when he felt safe.

And it was _these_ types of interactions between the brothers that made Bobby feel like his heart was going to burst.

Because _damn_ he loved these kids...and they loved each other...and _why_ couldn't their lives be simple and happy? Why couldn't John just leave them with him? Why couldn't Karen be here to see them and love them and raise them alongside Bobby?

Why couldn't his dream be real?

Those questions were a constant ache in Bobby's heart.

He sighed and then gestured over the steering wheel, indicating the clinic coming into view beyond the windshield. "Here we are..."

"Oh, no," Sam whispered as Bobby turned into the parking lot, the four-year old suddenly overwhelmed by the reality of actually _being_ at the clinic.

"It's okay," Dean soothed, even as his own stomach fluttered with anxiety. "You've been here before, remember?"

The clinic having become a makeshift pediatrician's office for the brothers over the past few years; the place Bobby occasionally brought them for well check-ups and vaccinations in addition to the even rarer sick visits like today.

"Plus, me and Bobby will be with you," Dean added, continuing to encourage and comfort his little brother.

Sam nodded but said nothing.

Bobby shifted the truck into park and cut off the engine, glancing at Dean. "Umbrella?" he asked, because sometimes Dean could be fussy about Sam getting wet.

Dean stared out the windshield at the rain that was no longer a downpour but more of a light drizzle. His gaze then shifted to the clinic, gauging the distance between the truck and the building before deciding Sam would be fine.

Dean glanced back at Bobby and shook his head. "We'll just have to walk fast," he told the older hunter about his plan for not allowing Sam to get too wet.

Bobby nodded, watching the eight-year old open the passenger side door and step down from the truck.

"C'mon..." Dean called, reaching for Sam.

"Actually..." Bobby interrupted, still sitting behind the steering wheel and hoping his next words would be well received by a fiercely possessive big brother. "I'm going to carry him."

Dean narrowed his eyes at the announcement, even though he knew Bobby carrying Sam would be quicker...and that's what mattered. Once they were settled in the clinic, Dean could – and _would_ – take over again.

Bobby waited, knowing Dean was processing the change of plans.

Sam sat in the middle of the bench seat, looking back and forth between Dean and Bobby...and wondering if either of them would notice if he rubbed his itchy eyes right now.

They probably would.

Sam sighed.

Dean sighed as well, though for a different reason. "Fine," he allowed about Bobby's plan and stared at the older hunter in the driver's seat. "Just be careful with him."

Bobby snorted at the familiar warning. "Nah. I think I'll drop him."

Dean glared at the joke. "Not funny."

But Sam's giggle disagreed.

"Oh, Uncle Bobby. No, you won't," the four-year old countered, shaking his head and smiling like their Uncle Bobby was _so_ silly.

"Oh, yeah?" Bobby challenged, the playful glint in his eyes matching his tone. "How do _you_ know I won't drop you?"

"'Cause you love me," Sam replied with the simple truthful innocence of a child.

Bobby felt his heart swell, remembering all the times Karen had said those exact words as a comeback to anything he teased he would do...but they both knew he wouldn't.

Sam had no idea he had echoed her, but the moment felt surreal – like a young son had just parroted a phrase he had heard his mother say repeatedly.

Bobby smiled. "Damn right I do," he agreed, surprised he could talk around the lump of emotion in his throat as he replied with the same words he had always told Karen.

He winked at his youngest...and then glanced at Dean, making sure the eight-year old knew he was included.

Because Bobby loved _both_ of his boys.

And Karen would have loved them, too.

Dean shifted where he stood, always uncomfortable when people started talking about love and other sappy things.

Bobby chuckled and opened the driver's side door, climbing out of the truck and motioning for Sam. "Let's go, squirt. Boot scoot over here..."

"And be careful," Dean added, still standing on the opposite side of the truck; the eight-year old framed by the open passenger door and watching Sam slide across the bench seat.

"You're like an inchworm," Bobby teased about the way Sam was inching towards him – the kid using the heels of his yellow galoshes to pull himself across the seat on his butt.

Sam smiled and Bobby did the same as the four-year old came close enough to reach, then lifted Sam and settled him on his right hip.

"There we go," Bobby commented, rubbing Sam's back once the kid was fully situated against him, and then glanced through the truck cab at Dean. "Ready?"

Dean nodded as he closed the passenger door and crossed in front of the truck, coming alongside Bobby.

"There shouldn't be any trouble, right?" the eight-year old asked, matching his steps with Bobby's as they crossed the parking lot.

"Shouldn't be," Bobby replied, though he understood Dean's concern since hunters seeking medical care usually resulted in some kind of unpleasant ordeal...especially when there were injuries not easily explained and health insurance that wasn't exactly legit.

But neither of those factors were at play today. Sam just needed eye drops for a common childhood infection. And although the clinic's services were usually free, Bobby had health insurance if needed.

"You boys have been here before," Bobby reminded, sensing the brothers' anxiety.

Dean nodded.

Sam sighed and laid his head on Bobby's shoulder.

"I know, squirt," Bobby soothed about the kid's increasing fear as they neared the clinic's entrance; the older hunter feeling the four-year old's heart pounding against his own chest. "You're okay," he assured and rubbed Sam's back.

Sam sniffled against the threat of returning tears and once again reached for Dean.

Dean frowned – recognizing an upset little brother when he heard one – and grasped his kid's hand, squeezing in silent comfort.

Sam released a shaky breath and clung to Bobby with one arm as the older hunter continued to carry him and entered the clinic.

Dean was right beside him, scanning the waiting room as they walked.

The receptionist behind the desk smiled as they approached. "Well, well..." she drawled, looking truly happy to see them. "The boys are back in town."

Bobby gave an amused snort at the greeting. "Mornin', Darla."

"Mornin'," she echoed, her smile widening as she stared up at Sam. "Hey there, cutie," she called, always forgetting how _absolutely precious_ he was...especially this morning still dressed in his Superman pajamas with yellow galoshes.

Darla glanced back at Bobby and nodded in solidarity, having children of her own and understanding some days it just wasn't worth the battle. If the kid wanted to wear his pajamas and rain boots out in public, then so be it.

Darla's smile lingered, then dimmed as she noticed neither of Bobby's nephews were smiling...and Bobby looked a bit concerned as well. "What's wrong?"

Bobby sighed, shifting Sam as the nervous four-year old squirmed against him. "I think we've got a case of pink eye," he told her, glancing meaningfully at the kid in his arms.

Darla tilted her head for a better look at Sam propped on Bobby's hip with his head on Bobby's shoulder, looking miserable and nervous. "Oh, my..." she commented when she saw the child's red, swollen eyes. "I think you're right. How long has he been showing symptoms?"

"Last couple of days," Dean answered, still holding Sam's hand.

Darla nodded as she made notes, remembering the little one's older brother was more protective than most and expected to be involved in Sam's care. "And then this morning..."

"He woke up with his eyes stuck shut."

"Oh," Darla gasped at Dean's blunt response and glanced at Bobby. "Guess that'll start the day with a bang."

"That's one way to put it," Bobby told her, remembering the panicked scene back at his house earlier that morning, and rubbed Sam's back as the anxious four-year old became increasingly fidgety within his embrace. "Will it take long to be seen?"

"Maybe a little longer than usual," Darla admitted and shrugged her apology when Dean glared at her. "We've only got one doctor on call this morning, and she's new to the clinic, so..."

Bobby nodded, understanding what was left unsaid. "Guess we'll have a seat, then."

Darla smiled. "Thank you. Just let me check you in real quick..."

Bobby nodded again, rubbing Sam's back in a soothing circular pattern as he waited for the receptionist to complete their paperwork.

Across the waiting room, a woman watched Bobby sway back and forth as he held his little boy, soothing the young child while talking to the older kid standing beside him.

A few minutes later, Bobby was walking towards her; him and his kids settling in the chairs against the far wall.

"I'll take him now," Dean announced, his butt barely making contact with the seat before he reached for his brother.

Sam reached back.

Bobby chuckled at the predictability of his boys and handed Sam over, smiling fondly as the four-year old relaxed into Dean's lap with a sigh.

Dean wrapped his arms around his brother and sighed as well, propping his chin on Sam's head as Sam rested against him.

The woman smiled, touched by how obviously content these two were just to sit together.

No toys, no books. Nothing most kids needed to keep entertained. They were just sitting there quietly, one wrapped around the other. Perfectly happy.

"I've never seen brothers so close," she commented, referring to Sam and Dean but speaking to Bobby. "Like magnets."

Bobby nodded, acknowledging her comparison about the inseparable nature of the boys' relationship but not otherwise responding. The older hunter preferring not to engage strangers since evil was everywhere...and a man could never be too careful, especially when his kids were in tow.

But the woman was not easily discouraged.

"They're adorable," she continued.

Dean wrinkled his nose at being included in that description; the eight-year old considering himself too old to be adorable.

"You must be very proud," she told Bobby.

He nodded again. "I am," he agreed, unable to keep quiet about that.

Her smile returned as she directed her attention to Dean. "My Alex should take lessons from you." She glanced back at Bobby. "My oldest never helps take care of his little brother."

Dean made a sound of disgust that matched the expression on his face. "Why?" he demanded as if this Alex character had committed a cardinal sin by neglecting his duties as a big brother.

The woman shrugged. "Good question," she replied. "But you...you're amazing with him," she praised Dean about how he cared for Sam. "I've only watched you for a few minutes, but I can tell." She paused. "And you..." she began, glancing at Bobby. "You're an amazing dad. I can tell that as well. You can always spot the good ones right off."

Bobby blinked at the unexpected comments – this woman clearly assuming he was the boys' father...yet he couldn't bring himself to correct her.

Neither could Sam or Dean.

All three just stared at her as she continued to ramble.

"Tell your wife I'm jealous," she teased, her airy laugh filling the waiting room. "If I had a nickel for every time _my_ husband brought our kids to the clinic by himself, I wouldn't have a cent to my name." She laughed again. "I hope your wife knows how lucky she is."

"We're _both_ pretty lucky," Bobby replied as if Karen was still alive.

As if the boys were theirs.

As if his dream was real.

Because in this moment...it kind of _was_.

The woman nodded. "I'd say you're right," she agreed and glanced across the room as a door clicked open, revealing a nurse with a clipboard.

"Mrs. Hamilton..."

The woman raised her hand and stood. "Right here," she called and then glanced over her shoulder at Bobby and his boys. The little one still sitting quietly in his big brother's lap, his eyes so red and puffy she wondered how she hadn't noticed until now. "No, actually...I can wait. I'd rather this little guy go next."

Bobby arched an eyebrow at this woman who was full of surprises.

"I insist," she told him, resuming her seat and gesturing in the direction of the nurse. "Please."

Dean needed no further invitation, standing with Sam held securely in his arms and crossing to the door that led to the treatment rooms.

The nurse blinked down at him, confused by the turn of events.

"What are we waiting on?" Dean asked, annoyed at this woman keeping Sam from what he needed.

"Oh, um..." The nurse flipped through papers on her clipboard. "Nothing, I just – "

" – then let's go," Dean interrupted, pushing past her and glancing behind him to make sure Bobby was coming.

"Thank you," Bobby told the woman – Mrs. Hamilton – as he crossed to the door to follow Dean.

She nodded. "My pleasure. You just keep being a good daddy and taking care of those sweet little boys."

Bobby smiled. "Wouldn't know what else to do with myself," he replied, the truth in this lie.

Because although he wasn't a father and Sam and Dean weren't his kids, they _did_ give his life purpose.

He _did_ love them more than he had ever loved anything else.

And sometimes, Bobby's dream _did_ come true...if only for a moment.

* * *

 _ **TBC**_


	6. Chapter 6

Sam clung to his big brother as Dean carried him down the hall. The four-year old resting his chin on Dean's shoulder and offering a tiny smile to Bobby as the older hunter followed behind them.

Bobby winked at his youngest, then glanced at the nurse when she spoke.

"Here we are..." she announced, waving her hand around the small space of one of the treatment rooms to usher them inside. "As I'm sure the receptionist told you, we only have one doctor on call this morning. So you – "

" – might have to wait," Dean finished and scowled his annoyance. "We know."

The nurse arched an eyebrow. "Do you also know pink eye is highly contagious?" she countered, returning sass for sass. "And that you shouldn't be holding him like that?" she added, gesturing at the way Sam was now leaning his head against his big brother, his forehead pressed along Dean's jawline. "You're just _asking_ for trouble," she pointed out about the proximity of Sam's infected eyes.

Dean's scowl deepened. "So are you."

Bobby twitched a smile as the nurse blinked her surprise at being spoken to so threateningly by an eight-year old. "We're aware of the dangers," he informed her, attempting to diffuse the tension caused by trying to tell a Mama Bear how to care for its cub. "But Dean has already been exposed, so there's no need to keep the boys separated."

As if keeping the boys separated was even possible.

Like Mr. T, Bobby would pity the fool who tried.

The nurse sighed her frustration about noncompliant patients. "Fine. But if you end up with _two_ kids having pink eye, just remember...I told you so."

Bobby nodded with an amused smile, acknowledging her warning as she stomped out of the room and closed the door behind her with more force than necessary.

Dean snorted. "Geez. What's _her_ problem?"

Bobby shrugged and shook his head, having learned long ago not to speculate about the reasons behind a woman's mood.

"Maybe she needs a nap."

Bobby chuckled at Sam's response. "Maybe," he agreed with the four-year old's logic; Sam knowing _he_ often became cranky around naptime and assuming the nurse did as well.

"Well, whatever..." Dean dismissed about the woman's attitude and set Sam on the exam table before climbing up to sit beside him.

Bobby sighed and took a seat in one of the chairs near the door, watching his boys.

Dean stared back. "How much longer?" he demanded, wrapping his arm around his little brother and murmuring something to the four-year old as Sam shifted, attempting to rub his itchy, burning eyes.

Bobby shook his head. "Hard to say," he admitted and nodded toward the small pile of children's books stacked in the corner beside the magazines. "Wanna read a story while we wait?"

Sam perked up at the mention of a story but Dean pulled a face as he glanced at the books and recognized one of the covers.

Bobby arched an eyebrow at the big brother's reaction. "Problem?"

"I'm not reading that to Sam," Dean replied, his tone reflecting his immovable stance on the issue.

Bobby glanced again at the books, wondering what the hell he had missed.

But there was nothing offensive or inappropriate for children. Just the usual classics.

Dr. Seuss, Richard Scary, Eric Carle, Maurice Sendak...

Bobby glanced back at Dean and blinked, waiting for an explanation.

Dean sighed. "That one on top..." he began, wrinkling his nose as if he didn't even want to say the book's title.

So Bobby said it for him. " _Where the Wild Things Are_?"

Dean nodded. "Tell me there's one thing in that book you wouldn't gank."

Bobby chuckled at what Dean was implying. "I've never really thought about it," he commented, studying the book's cover more carefully and recalling the characters. "But I guess you're right."

Because the book _was_ a bit scary for kids and featured monsters galore...which made it off-limits for Dean's little brother who was constantly protected from the reality of their hunter life.

Understanding now, Bobby grabbed the book and shuffled it a little deeper in the stack so it was no longer resting on top.

Dean nodded his thanks to the older hunter, then blocked Sam's arm as the four-year old once again reached for his face. "Sammy. Stop."

Sam grunted a whine. "But my eyes itch."

"I know," the big brother soothed and brushed Sam's bangs from his forehead, keeping a check on his kid's fever. "The doctor's coming soon, but how 'bout we play a game while we wait?"

Sam hesitated, not really in the mood to play but...

"What game?"

Dean smiled, an expert at distracting his little brother. "A trivia game."

Sam returned the smile, loving anything that tested his knowledge. "Okay," he agreed. "But me first!"

Bobby smiled at the four-year old's sudden enthusiasm and winked at Dean when the eight-year old looked at him, giving the big brother credit for always knowing how to keep Sam occupied.

Dean returned the wink, then refocused on his brother. "Alright, Sammy. Let's hear it. First question..."

Sam nodded at Dean's prompting to begin the game and then glanced at Bobby still sitting in the chair beside the door. "You wanna play, too?"

Bobby's smile widened at this sweet kid. "Sure thing, squirt. You get us started..."

Sam beamed but the grin faltered as a fresh jolt of itching, burning pain shot through his eyes, causing them to water with stinging tears.

"You're okay," Dean told him, pulling his brother a little closer and giving the four-year old a one-armed hug. "Go head. Ask us something..."

Sam inhaled a shaky breath and relaxed again into Dean's side as the brothers continued to sit on the exam table together with Bobby nearby.

"Okay. Um..." Sam sniffled and thought for a moment before smiling. "What year did The Joker first appear?"

Dean laughed. "Batman trivia, huh?" he commented and nodded his approval. "That's my boy," he praised his little brother and ruffled Sam's hair.

Twenty minutes later, the questions continued.

The game having been briefly interrupted when a different nurse than before had popped in to check on them and take Sam's vitals...but then had been quickly resumed since asking and guessing trivia seemed to be doing the proverbial trick of keeping Sam distracted.

And when you were waiting with a four-year old who was tired, in pain, and on the verge of becoming whiney, distraction was everything.

"Your turn, Sammy."

"Um..." Sam hummed, resting against his brother and glancing around the room as he tried to think of something to ask. "When did..."

But the four-year old's voice trailed off as the door suddenly opened, revealing a woman in a white coat with greying hair and a warm smile.

"I heard somebody's had a rough morning..." she commented as she entered the small treatment room, sorting through her patient's chart.

The woman already knowing the background and suspected diagnosis with this situation based on the receptionist's notes scribbled across the intake form completed when these three had checked in at the front desk.

Sam shrunk back against his brother, instantly shy as the stranger approached the exam table.

Dean tightened his hold around Sam, angling his body to further shield the four-year old from whoever this was invading their space.

The woman's smile softened. "It's okay," she assured the two kids staring up at her and turned her attention to Bobby as he stood. "Hello. You must be the uncle."

"And you must be the doctor," Bobby countered.

The woman nodded. "Yes. Dr. Mangum," she introduced, extending her hand. "Primary care physician and weekend volunteer."

Bobby returned the nod and the handshake but didn't tell her his name. "Nice to meet you," he told her instead. "Appreciate you volunteering your time to help out our little squirt."

Dr. Mangum smiled at the affectionate nickname and refocused on the kids still sitting on the table and staring at her – the little one scared while the bigger one was surprisingly threatening.

"I don't need to frisk him, do I?" the doctor teased, setting the chart on the counter and gesturing at Dean as though the eight-year old was armed and dangerous.

Bobby chuckled, because the woman was right – Dean's body language made it clear that he was protective of Sam and aggressive toward anyone who dared to touch the four-year old.

"He's fine," Bobby assured the doctor about Dean and held the eight-year old's gaze. "Aren't you?"

Dean's attention flickered between the older hunter and the doctor before he finally nodded, knowing the woman was there to help Sam but still wary of strangers.

"I'm not leaving him," Dean informed, tired of hearing how he and Sam should be separated and giving this newcomer fair warning.

The doctor nodded. "Understood," she replied. "Besides, separating you two wouldn't do much good now since you've already been exposed."

"Exactly," Dean agreed. "And I know you have to take a look at him, but don't hurt him," he further warned as the doctor gloved up and stepped forward, reaching for Sam.

"I'll try not to," Dr. Mangum promised, gently pressing around Sam's puffy eyes under the watchfulness of Sam's big brother.

Sam blinked at her, wrinkling his nose in pain.

"What's your name, sweetie?"

"He's Sam," Dean answered for his brother, rubbing his kid's back as the four-year old leaned against him. "And I'm Dean."

Dr. Mangum nodded. "Hi, Sam," she greeted, smiling at the child who continued to blink at her with those big, red, _infected_ eyes. "And Dean," she added, glancing at the big brother.

Dean stared at her, watching her every move as she clicked on her penlight and shined it directly into Sam's right eye, then his left.

Sam whimpered and squirmed, trying to turn his face away. "It hurts!"

"I know," Dr. Mangum soothed, expertly continuing her examination while ignoring her wiggling patient and his glaring big brother. "Almost done..."

She paused, narrowing her eyes as she noticed a trace of the yellowy discharge still clinging to Sam's lower eyelashes.

The doctor nodded – because _that_ was the kind of symptom she was looking for to determine exactly what they were dealing with here.

Bobby stood nearby. "Bacterial?"

Dr. Mangum glanced over her shoulder and arched an eyebrow, clearly impressed with Bobby's knowledge since most people didn't know there were several types of conjunctivitis.

"I think so. The discharge is usually the tell-tale sign." She paused again, quirking a smile. "You're good. You want a job?" she offered, teasing about Bobby's medical knowledge being sufficient enough to work at the clinic.

Bobby snorted. "Thanks. But I already have a job."

Because for Bobby, the only job that mattered was looking after his boys.

The doctor held Bobby's gaze, understanding what he meant. "From what I can see, you're good at that, too," she told him and then directed her attention to the brothers. "I like your shirt," she complimented, trying to distract Sam as she completed the last part of her examination.

Sam inhaled a shaky breath, glancing down as if he had forgotten what shirt he was wearing but then smiling when he remembered. "Thank you," he returned, not forgetting his manners even as he winced in pain. "Uncle Bobby gave it to me."

Dr. Mangum nodded, completely smitten with this adorable little guy. "Ahhh..." she commented. "So I guess you're a Superman fan?"

"Uh-huh," Sam confirmed. " _And_ Batman," he added, glancing at his brother still sitting beside him. "Dean likes Batman the best."

"Batman _is_ pretty awesome," the doctor agreed, stepping back from the exam table and removing her gloves before washing her hands.

Dean sighed, appreciating this woman's attempt to interact with Sam...but they weren't here to discuss superheroes. They were here for only one reason.

"Are you gonna fix Sam's eyes now or what?"

Dr. Mangum smiled at the big brother's gruff question as she stood at the counter and made notes in her patient's chart. "Well..." she began, turning to face them. "This isn't something that can be fixed _now_. We can start treatment now. But Sam's eyes won't be better for at least a few days."

Dean scowled at the news and glanced at Bobby. "Is that true?"

The doctor arched an amused eyebrow at the eight-year old seeking a second opinion right in front of her.

"It's true," Bobby confirmed. "That's what I said back at the house, remember? That Sam would need drops for a few days..."

"Yeah," Dean replied, his tone and expression reflecting his frustration that his little brother couldn't be immediately healed. He glanced back at the doctor. "Do you have the drops here?"

"I do," Dr. Mangum responded, reaching in the drawer and pulling out several small bottles. "These are samples manufacturers supply to the clinic, but they should last throughout the duration of Sam's treatment. He'll need one drop in each eye twice a day...morning and before bedtime usually works best...and you can also apply warm or cool compresses to help with swelling as well as to provide general comfort measures. Of course, you'll need to wash your hands and also use separate compresses for each eye to help prevent the spread of infection."

Both Bobby and Dean nodded.

"What about his fever? Just keep using children's Tylenol?"

Dr. Mangum smiled at Dean, feeling like she was being questioned by a parent instead of a big brother who was just a few years older than her patient. "Yes. It's low-grade, so that should be fine. Just monitor his temperature and the overall condition of his eyes. If he seems to be getting worse or you have any concerns at all, definitely bring him back in. The infection should clear up in a few days but sometimes other complications develop that need different treatment."

Dean narrowed his eyes while Sam's widened, both boys processing the information.

"Relax, fellas. Complications are rare," Bobby assured, appreciating the doctor's honesty and thoroughness but not needing her upsetting his kids.

Dr. Mangum nodded as Bobby stared at her, receiving his message to shut the hell up. "But enough about that..." she dismissed, changing topics as she uncapped one of the eye drop bottles. "How about I administer the first dose of drops, so I can show you how best to do so with children..."

Dean scoffed at her comment. "I don't need you to show me anything about Sammy," he coolly told her and motioned for her to hand over the eye drops. "I'll do it."

The doctor hesitated, glancing at Bobby.

The older hunter chuckled at her expression.

Dean glared, annoyed at this woman double-checking his qualifications. "I've done it before."

Bobby chuckled again as the doctor continued to stare at him, seeking his input. "He has."

Dr. Mangum nodded at the confirmation, still uncertain about that...but giving the eye drops to Dean and hoping this wasn't a disaster. "Sometimes it helps if – "

" – I got it," Dean interrupted, ignoring the doctor and focusing on his brother as they continued to sit together on the exam table. "Sammy..." he began, brushing the four-year old's bangs away from his eyes. "You know what we gotta do, right?"

Sam looked close to tears, his swollen gaze flickering between Dean and the eye drop bottle.

Dean smiled at his nervous little brother. "It's okay. We'll do it quick."

"But not _too_ quick," the doctor chimed in. "We recommend the child keeps his eye closed for at least a few seconds once the medicine is administered, usually having him count to ten or..."

Her voice trailed off as Dean cut his eyes at her.

Dr. Mangum cleared her throat, unaccustomed to this feeling – like the child staring at her was the expert and she was the chattering nuisance. "Or whatever you usually do is probably also fine."

Dean sighed, exchanging a glance with Bobby and then once again turning his attention to his brother. "Okay, Sammy. You know the drill. Head back..."

Sam swallowed and did as he was told, feeling Dean's hand smooth over his hair in a soothing gesture and then cup the back of his head to help hold him steady.

"Right one first," Dean announced and waited for his kid to close that eye. "Good, Sammy. Here comes one drop..." he warned, squeezing the bottle to administer the medicine at the inside corner of Sam's eye. "And now open," he instructed, watching the clear antibiotic liquid flow into his brother's eye.

Sam flinched at the cool sensation stinging his inflamed eye and made a sound between a gasp and a sob.

"You're okay," Dean murmured, rubbing his thumb back and forth through Sam's hair as he continued to cradle the four-year old's head.

Sam made the same sound again and reached for Dean with both hands, fisting his big brother's t-shirt as he rapidly blinked against the fresh irritation flaring in his infected eye.

"Hey. Stop," Dean lightly admonished, knowing if Sam kept blinking like that he would blink the medicine out. "Close your eye and relax. Plus, where's my word?"

Bobby twitched a smile at the question, their smart kid preferring to spell than count whenever he had to pass time.

Over the years, they had worked out a system – different words equaled a different amount of seconds – and Sam knew which word his brother expected him to spell to signal the passage of ten seconds.

Sam sniffled, both eyes now closed as he spoke with a trembling voice. "M – I...crooked letter – crooked letter...I...crooked letter – crooked letter...I...humpback – humpback...I."

Dr. Mangum smiled, realizing the four-year old was spelling _Mississippi_ in that adorable, sing-song way that most kids learned...and that he was spelling it slow enough to roughly equal ten seconds.

"Smart kids," she commented to Bobby, receiving a nod from the older hunter.

"Good job, Sammy," Dean praised and ruffled his kid's hair. "Now let's do the left one, and then go home and eat pancakes."

Sam opened his eyes at the mention of one of his favorite foods and gave a watery smile.

"That's right...pancakes," Dean promised before getting back to business, giving his brother instructions one step at a time as they completed the same process for administering medicine to Sam's left eye.

Only this time, Sam spelled _hippopotamus_.

Dr. Mangum smiled once more, impressed with the four-year old's intelligence and with his big brother's expertise in handling the little guy. "I stand corrected," she told Dean, referring to her earlier concerns about whether or not he could handle the task he so skillfully just completed. "Looks like Sam is in excellent hands."

Dean nodded once, accepting her roundabout apology. "Can we go now?"

Bobby snorted at the bluntness of Dean's question, the eight-year old _done_ with this woman and this place.

Dr. Mangum laughed as well, not taking it personally. "Absolutely," she replied, giving one last check to her patient before sliding the multiple samples into a small bag and passing it to Bobby. "It was nice to meet you, Sam," she told the four-year old as she turned back to face the kids sitting on the exam table. "I'm sorry you had a rough morning, but I'm sure you'll feel better in a few days."

Sam yawned, leaning his head against Dean's shoulder. "Thank you."

Dr. Mangum nodded at this polite little cutie. "My pleasure." She glanced at Dean. "You keep taking good care of your brother."

"I always do."

The doctor nodded again, having witnessed that for herself, and glanced at Bobby before she left the room.

Bobby sighed, watching her go and then refocusing on his boys. "Who's ready to go home?"

"Me!" both brothers answered in unison.

Bobby smiled. "Same here," he agreed and lifted Sam into his arms as Dean jumped down from the table.

"Can we really have pancakes for breakfast?" Sam asked as they left the clinic, crossing the parking lot and heading toward Bobby's truck as gray clouds crawled across the sky, threatening more rain.

"I think I can arrange that," Bobby replied, opening the driver's side door.

"And then after breakfast, it's gonna be naptime for Sammy..." Dean added, settling in the passenger seat before reaching for Sam and pulling the four-year old toward him.

Sam sighed, sliding across the bench seat and then leaning against his brother. "Okay," he agreed, his lack of resistance testifying to his exhaustion and how miserable he felt. "Will you nap with me?"

Dean pulled a face as Bobby cranked the truck. "Sam. Eight-year old's don't nap."

"Please?"

Bobby twitched a smile, knowing Dean would do whatever Sam wanted...and knowing Dean had already planned to stick close to the kid; the big brother always on high-alert whenever Sam didn't feel well.

Dean sighed. "Maybe."

Sam giggled – recognizing the "maybe" as a "yes" – and snuggled closer to his brother as they rode back to Singer Salvage.

An hour later, they were finishing breakfast. Sam managing to eat about half of his meal before somehow ending up in Bobby's lap while Dean cleaned his own plate and drained his glass.

Bobby chuckled at the eight-year old's appetite. "You want more?"

Dean shook his head, more focused on his brother than food as Sam's blinks became slower and longer.

Bobby followed Dean's gaze to the kid resting in his lap. "You want your Sammy back?"

Dean snorted at Bobby's question but nodded – because yeah...that was _exactly_ what he wanted.

Dean wanted to hold his little brother; he wanted Sam to be falling asleep against _him_.

It was a protective, possessive big brother thing...and Dean wasn't sorry for it.

Bobby nodded his understanding as Dean stood and reached for his kid.

"Sammy..."

Sam blinked at his brother, squinty and drowsy.

Dean smiled. "C'mere..." he called and lifted the four-year old from Bobby's lap.

Sam wrapped himself around his big brother in response, sighing as he laid his head on Dean's shoulder.

Dean patted Sam's back affectionately and carried his kid to the living room.

Bobby watched as the brothers disappeared around the corner and then stood, working out the kinks in his back before snapping his fingers at Rumsfeld sprawled beneath the table.

The dog instantly responded, clamoring to his feet and following behind his master.

Bobby crossed to sit beside his boys on the couch, easing himself down so as not to wake an already sleeping Sam. The four-year old curled up and snoozing in Dean's lap; his small chest against his big brother's as his head rested in the hollow of the eight-year old's neck and shoulder.

"Well, that was quick..." Bobby commented.

Dean snorted softly and smiled, glancing down at his little brother nestled safely in his arms.

Wordlessly, Bobby pulled a blanket from the back of the couch and handed it to his oldest.

Dean nodded his thanks, wrapping the blanket around Sam and glancing at Rumsfeld as the Rottweiler collapsed at his feet.

A comfortable silence settled as Dean and Bobby focused on the television murmuring across the room; the older hunter flipping the through channels until he landed on an old John Wayne movie.

"The Duke," Bobby announced with a smile and glanced at Dean. "What d'ya say, Pilgrim?"

Dean nodded in agreement, reluctantly admitting to himself that while Bobby had gotten Sam hooked on country music...the older hunter had gotten Dean hooked on Westerns.

Dean quirked a smile at his secret confession, hugging Sam a little closer when the four-year old shifted in his arms at the sound of the wind whistling outside as a fresh batch of spring storms approached.

Thunder grumbled, loud and startling as it shook the house.

Dean glanced at the ceiling, then glanced down at Sam as his brother suddenly fisted his shirt; the four-year old making a distressed sound and scrunching his face in his sleep.

"Shhh..." Dean whispered, briefly cupping the back of Sam's head and waiting, then smiling when Sam settled beneath his touch. "S'okay, Sammy," the big brother soothed as his kid relaxed against him, once again sleeping peacefully.

Bobby smiled as well, always fascinated to watch Dean take care of his little brother.

Dean's smile lingered, readjusting the blanket to more fully cover Sam and then briefly burying his face into the warm, cuddly four-year old snuggled against him, inhaling the familiar scent of his little brother.

Bobby continued to watch as Dean once again began rubbing Sam's back; the big brother's gesture reflecting just how much he loved the kid sleeping in his arms.

Bobby felt his heart swell, understanding that depth of love since he felt the same for _both_ of these kids sitting beside him.

Half an hour later, Dean realized he was nodding off. The events of the morning finally catching up with him as the rhythmic rain and dimly lit living room lulled him to sleep.

The eight-year old sighed and leaned toward Bobby, still holding his sleeping Sammy but now resting his own head against Bobby's chest and allowing himself to relax in the solid presence of someone he trusted, someone he knew loved him and his little brother.

Warmth spread through Bobby's chest and he wrapped his arm around Dean as the eight-year old settled against his side.

Out in the hall, a slight movement caught his attention and Bobby glanced toward the doorway, seeing Karen standing there, staring at them with an affectionate smile.

* * *

 _ **END**_


End file.
